


That Fucking Jeep

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Businessman Peter, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Peter Hale, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, POV Peter Hale, Power Dynamics, Virgin Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Someone that pretty and that pure shouldn't have been left anywhere Peter could get his hands on them. He'd gotten a well-earned reputation as a cherry-picker back in college, and while he (sometimes) tries to be a good man these days, there are some temptations too powerful to walk away from. </i>
</p><p><i>Stiles Stilinksi, flushed and writhing under him as Peter teases and pumps the boy free from his virginity, is one of them. </i><br/>__________<br/>Or: the AU in which Peter owns and runs a garage, Stiles's Jeep is the stuff of his nightmares, and Cora can't leave well enough alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Fucking Jeep

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! As usual, credit/blame goes to BelleAmante and DenaCeleste for enabling the everliving shit out of me and my Steter problem. I mean, this one is especially Dena's fault, since she cheered the idea on when it was still just a kernel in my brain, but, Seriously. These two. _Worst_ kinds of shoulder devils. 
> 
> I know it's odd for me to post on a not-Friday, but, holy balls. Everything exploded all over the everywhere. Mental health stuff got bad (PTSD was up and swinging, and fucker packs a nasty punch), living situation got hairy (escalation of a bad situation), and health stuff went screwy (not surprising, given). It's made writing really, really hard. So just . . . here. Enjoy the thing. And if you did enjoy the thing, please let me know? Comments and kudos are wonderful things and make me feel good.

 

Peter's at his desk when Cora pops her head in. "Hey, Uncle Peter? Pretty boy with the piece of shit Jeep is here again."

He looks at the grin she's sending his way, and nods. He very carefully doesn't smirk. "Thanks, Cora. Have Leslie give me the estimate before you send him back here."

"Can do."

He has a few minutes to think about what he's going to do about this. On the one hand, he has a business to run, and can't afford to start cutting his profits. On the other, the boy has singlehandedly helped keep those profits steady, and obviously can't keep going at this rate. It would honestly be cheaper at this point to sell the junker for parts and buy a new one, but Peter knows the kid won't do that. He gets a certain stubborn set to his jaw every time Peter suggests it.

But Peter is a businessman, providing a service—and a damn good one at that—and Stiles is one of their best customers. Who is likely to be broke, because he's only got a part-time job, and most of what he makes goes towards college.

So maybe it'd be okay, just this once, to cut him a deal. An exchange of services, perhaps?

Just as Peter's contemplating what kind of bargain or trade he can work out with the boy, Cora pops back in. "Estimate's for $500."

Peter frowns. "That seems high, and I think you need to see a doctor, Leslie, you're starting to sound an awful lot like my niece."

Cora snorts, sashaying into the office to perch on Peter's desk. "Uncle Peter, I feel the need to be really, really honest with you right now."

"God help us all."

"You desperately need to get laid, and someone desperately needs to bend that boy over a bed, or desk, or other object of convenient height, because the scent of sexual frustration is acutely painful."

He bats at her leg, giving her the only warning she's going to receive to _get off his desk_. "If he needs to have sex so badly, he can go out to the bars and clubs like all the other young things. I'm not going to jeopardize my business to get my dick wet."

"No, Uncle Peter, you don't understand," she insists in a sultry whisper, sliding off his desk and into his lap. That he doesn't dump her on the floor is an actual miracle, not that she acknowledges it as such. "Poor pretty boy can't get anyone to take him home."

Peter's eyebrows shoot up his face. "You mean to tell me _that_ boy is untouched? With that face? With that _mouth_?"

Cora nods before getting to her feet. "Yep. He's weird, too smart and too cutting, doesn't know when to shut up. Plus, y'know. Sheriff's son, so no one wants to let him into any of the parties, since they think he'll narc."

Peter rubs his forehead. "I'll think about it."

Neither he nor Cora say anything as she slips out, but they both know he'll do more than think about it. Someone that pretty and that pure shouldn't have been left anywhere Peter could get his hands on them. He'd gotten a well-earned reputation as a cherry-picker back in college, and while he (sometimes) tries to be a good man these days, there are some temptations too powerful to walk away from.

Stiles Stilinksi, flushed and writhing under him as Peter teases and pumps the boy free from his virginity, is one of them.

Before Peter can either rein in his libido or plot how he’ll seduce the pretty young thing, Cora ushers the boy into his office. He stumbles in—Peter will eat his own foot if it’s not because his darling niece gave him a helping hand—and gives a little wave. “Hey, Mr. Hale.” He amends it when Peter quirks an eyebrow at him. “Hey, Peter.”

He nods. “Better. So I take it you’re here to talk about payment?”

Stiles ducks his head, nodding, but Peter can hear the way his heartbeat speeds. Interesting. “I, uh. I’m kinda hoping that I can work some of it off?”

Peter smirks. “You can’t possibly think I’ll let you near any of the tools, or other people’s cars.”

Stiles pretends to be outraged. “Hey! I don’t like what you’re implying!”

Peter puts on an equally-false expression of contrition as Stiles takes the seat across from him, on the other side of the desk. “My apologies. I should have known better than to think that the son of the Sheriff would paw through other people’s personal belongings.”

Stiles ducks again to hide his grin, but Peter can hear it in his voice. “I resemble that remark. I was, uh, actually thinking more along the lines of your paperwork and software. The business side of things, where I can’t accidentally destroy someone’s car with the force of my klutz.”

Peter leans back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach. It’s not a bad offer. Stiles is smart, and probably quick enough to overhaul their system without it becoming a pain in the ass. “I’ll bite. What did you have in mind?”

Peter stares as Stiles gestures wildly, laying out his plans to revamp their filing system and install various software to make Peter’s life easier. When he’s done, he looks at Peter, bright-eyed and a little breathless, and that does it. Peter _has_ to defile him now. He smiles. “Sounds good. You free to come over tonight and get started?”

Stiles bounces his leg as he gnaws his lip. “Yeah, sure. I just. How much do you think that’ll knock off the estimate?”

Peter pretends to think about it. He knows the estimate was too high, that the repairs the boy’ll need will likely cost a little over half that. He knows Cora did that on purpose. “It depends on how well the overhauled system works, and how quickly you can get it up and running for me. It’s safe to say that you’ll have worked off a hundred, maybe two, once you’re done.”

Stiles blows out a breath and nods. His expression is determined. “Is there any other way I can help work it off? I mean, I know you’re doing me a favour here, and I’m not trying to weasel out of paying, it’s just—”

“Stiles.” Peter puts on a pleasant expression and doesn’t let any of the want he feels leak through. “I have an idea about that, but I’d rather talk about it tonight. Rest assured, we’ll figure something out. You’re one of our best customers, after all.”

Stiles nods, relieved, and the warmth in his tone when he says, “Thank you so much,” goes straight to Peter’s groin. He stares at Stiles’s ass as the young man leaves, because he’s a terrible person. He idly wonders when, exactly, he decided propositioning Stiles was a good idea.

Then Cora sticks her head back in, asking, “So, you gonna do him?” and he remembers.

He glares. “He’s coming over tonight to update our filing system.”

Her enthusiasm remains undented. “And _then_ you’re gonna do him?”

He rubs his hands over his face, wondering why he agreed to let Cora work for him. “First of all, it’s none of your business. Secondly, why are you so invested in this?”

“Many reasons, but the top of the list is making sure that condoms and lube find their way to your desk drawer,” she deadpans.

“I can fire you, you know.”

She laughs. “You keep telling yourself that, Uncle Peter.”

 

***

 

Peter stays behind that night after closing. He thinks long and hard about whether or not he’s actually going to put his hands all over the boy’s pretty skin as he tidies his office—it would be a bad idea to tempt Stiles to snoop—before changing into a set of work-clothes he keeps for when he wants to indulge his desire to deal with machinery instead of people for a while. The wife-beater and jeans are old, worn soft and thin, and stained with grease, but they’re clean and comfortable.

When he finally pops the hood on that thrice-damned Jeep, he understands why the estimate was high—it isn’t just Cora’s scheming and the replacement part, the whole thing looks like it’s being held together with duct tape and prayers. He wonders where to start, and figures that anywhere works, so he gets to it. He’s still working on Stiles’s death-trap of a vehicle when the boy walks into the darkened garage.

“Mr. Ha—Peter? You here?”

“Back here,” Peter calls, straightening to wipe his hands.

“Hey, cool, I wanted to ask before I got sta—”

Peter looks up and sees Stiles staring slack-jawed at him, cheeks turning a faint pink as the heady scent of arousal starts to tinge the air. Peter smirks, and resists the urge to preen.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Sorry, holy shit that was—it’s just, uh, I’ve never . . .” he trails off, flapping a hand at Peter. “You realize that’s not fair, right? Like, this is outrageously unfair.”

Peter leans one hip against the crapmobile and crosses his arms over his chest, just to watch the boy’s charming flush darken and spread. “It’s the only way to _be_ fair, Stiles. It’s my garage, and if I’m cutting you a deal, it’s only fair that I do the work. Cora and Leslie would be hell squared if I asked them to contribute unpaid labour on this thing.”

Stiles’s cheeks and throat are a dull red now, and he’s trying not to squirm. Peter can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. “No, I mean,” Stiles makes another gesture, “all the— _ness_. With the muscles and shit. You have a desk job, how the hell are you this built?” He tries to make it sound like a complaint, but Peter can hear the way his heart speeds, and that flush is unmistakable.

So he chuckles, brushing by Stiles and heading towards the office. “I own a garage, Stiles. Did you think I don’t know my way around cars? Leslie and I were the only ones here for the first few years, and even if I was in charge of the business end of things, I still spent my fair share of time elbow-deep in axle grease.” Peter goes back, and tugs the boy into his office. “Now, while you’re doing this, I’m going to continue trying to save that thing you call a Jeep from imminent death. Do what you came here for, and no snooping through client files or my desk—and believe, I _will_ know.”

As he leaves, his enhanced hearing catches the whimpered, “Oh my God.”

He decides to let it slide for now. Unfortunately, he’s barely made it back to Stiles’s coffin on wheels before the boy starts poking around. Which. Peter can’t say he didn’t expect it, but he did think that the boy would at least wait until he was out of human earshot, even if he has no way of knowing Peter’s range is larger than most.

He stands silently in the doorway for a moment, watching Stiles paw through the bottom drawer of his desk. “Was there something you needed?” he purrs, just for the satisfaction of watching Stiles startle.

“I, uh, just—”

“Save it.” Peter prowls over, and Stiles scrambles to vacate his desk chair. “You were snooping, after I expressly told you not to.”

Embarrassment wafts off Stiles as red crawls up his throat. “I can do . . . something else, if you don’t want me doing the filing system.”

Peter lounges in his seat, eyeing Stiles with distinctly unprofessional interest. It almost sounds as if he’s offering himself. “Oh, you’ll update the filing system, Stiles. But you’re also going to make this up to me, because I offered to let you work off your debt, and you repaid me by breaking trust the second my back was turned.” Stiles is staring at the ground, thoroughly ashamed. “So, how do you plan to make it up to me?”

Stiles wraps his arms around himself and shuffles forward. “I, um. I’ve seen the way you look at me, y’know.”

Peter raises an eyebrow when the boy darts a glance at him. “And how’s that?”

Peter reads the arousal and uncertainty battling for dominance in his scent, sees the way his shoulders are hunched and face hidden. But he keeps coming closer. Hesitantly, perhaps, but closer all the same. His voice is almost a whisper when he replies, “Like something you can’t have.” He pauses then, lifting his head to look Peter in the eye as he closes the distance between them. “You can, you know.”

Peter keeps his body language open—knees spread, elbows resting on his armrests, hands unclenched—because if this is going where he thinks it’s going, he’s determined not to spook the boy. “I can what?” Because there are any number of things he could do, and more that he _wants_ to do, but he needs to know how far he can push.

Stiles sinks to his knees, and tentatively rests his hands on Peter’s thighs. His blush is darkening, but everything about him is hesitant, unsure of his welcome. “I’ve thought about this, y’know. And a-about you.” He smooths his hands up Peter’s thighs, and Peter moves into it. He’s not going to keep the boy on his knees, but he wants Stiles to know he appreciates the touch. “Ever—ever since I realized I liked guys, I’ve been . . . curious.”

Peter cups the boy’s face, and runs a thumb across the plush lips. “You’ve wanted to know how it feels to hold a cock in your mouth, feel the weight of it on your tongue?” Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, and then nods. Peter hums. “I won’t lie to you—I’ve thought about it. You have a beautiful mouth, and I imagine your clever tongue would feel heavenly on my cock.”

Stiles’s brow furrows. “You imagine?”

Peter lets a small smile curve his lips. “I imagine it would, yes.”

“But . . .?” Stiles seems at a loss for how to ask what he wants to know. Peter leans down and kisses him, sweet but insistent, until he’s letting Peter lick into his mouth.

When he pulls away, he slides his hands to Stiles’s shoulders and urges the boy up. “ _But_ ,” he stresses, backing Stiles against his desk, “I have other plans for you.”

Stiles rests his hands, feather-light, on Peter’s shoulders. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that? Since you seemed more than fine with me putting my mouth to use.”

Peter chuckles, because the boy’s words are bold, but his heartbeat is fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings and he’s red up to his hairline. He moves slowly, undoing the button and fly on Stiles’s jeans. “Because your first time shouldn’t be on your knees on a cold concrete floor.” He drags the denim down slender hips, and pushes the obnoxious tee-shirt up to bare a surprisingly thick happy-trail. He leans in and whispers against the soft flesh of Stiles’s belly, relishing the way the boy’s hands tighten on his shoulders but don’t push him away. “Your first time deserves to be a memorable experience for all the _right_ reasons, and I intend to make that happen.”

He kisses at the pale skin under his lips, thumbs stroking hipbones through Stiles’s boxers. When Stiles starts to squirm, he tips his head up. “Shirt off, darling.”

Stiles freezes. “I’m not, I don’t—”

“All the right reasons, baby.”

Stiles doesn’t move for a moment. Then, he peels his shirt off, drops it on Peter’s desk, and brings his hands back to Peter’s shoulders, gripping tightly. Peter rewards him by standing to suck and bite softly at his neck, collarbones, nipples while kneading what is a truly fantastic bubble butt. He wants to do any number of things to it—smack it, finger it, nibble on it—but he contents himself with groping for now.

Given the way Stiles has started to rut against him, he’d say the boy doesn’t mind. Peter leaves his chest a little reluctantly. Stiles is making all kinds of delicious noises, but there’s something else he promised himself he’d do. So.

He sits and slides the boy’s boxers down, unable to help the little sigh that crosses his lips. Apparently misinterpreting the sound, Stiles tenses. “What?”

“It’s lovely,” Peter murmurs against his cock. He sucks a line of kisses up the underside, where it’s pressed to Stiles’s belly. “Haven’t seen one nearly this lovely in quite some time.”

He’s delighted when that delicious blush spreads across Stiles’s chest. “It’s a c-cock, pretty sure none of them ah-are lovely,” he gasps.

It’s not his fault, though. Peter’s stroking up the insides of his thighs and nipping small, bright marks across his hipbones. He’s proud of them, likes the way they spell out “Peter Hale was here” to anyone who bothers to look. He draws the head of Stiles’s erection into his mouth, and the rattling groan he gets is music to his ears.

He goes carefully, gently, wanting to make this last. There’s an art to wiping the shiny off a pretty young thing’s innocence, to making it last long enough not to cause embarrassment. He draws maybe half of Stiles into his mouth, his tongue laying soft and flat, before pulling back just as lazily. He keeps going, slow and steady, until Stiles’s breath is hitching and his hips are making aborted little thrusts. Then Peter gives one good suck, hollowing his cheeks, and lets go.

“No, come back,” Stiles whines.

Peter chuckles. “Not just yet, pretty. I want your first time to be memorable, and that means I need you to wait a little longer for me.”

To his surprise, hearing that makes a bead of pre-come ooze out. He licks it away before mouthing across Stiles’s stomach. It seems the pretty boy likes being told what to do. Peter prays to Lucifer and all his minions that he gets to play with Stiles again as he gets back to it—only this time, he works a little closer with each bob of his head until Stiles is easing down his throat.

He knows that Stiles isn’t going to last. It’s in the scent of the sweat gathering on his skin, the pounding of his heart. So Peter takes him down to the root, swallows, pulls back slowly—and squeezes him at the base.

Stiles nearly sobs. “No, please, let me come already!”

Peter shushes him. “It’s okay, pretty. It’s okay. I’ll let you come. Just not yet. I want to make you to feel good, first.” He moves one of Stiles’s hands to his head. “You can hold on, if you want. If it’ll help.”

His eyes go heavy-lidded as those long fingers comb shakily through his hair. The touch is gentle, oddly sweet. He sucks the head of Stiles’s cock back into his mouth, tongue flicking over it, and he expects those fingers to clench, to pull. He’d enjoy the sting, but it never comes. Stiles just drags his fingertips across Peter’s scalp, and that carefulness does something to hm. He wants to wreck this boy, leave him shaking and gasping and doe-eyed, wants to leave behind something as precious as what he’s taking.

So he wraps an arm around Stiles’s waist, holding him close as he closes his lips around the pretty cock. He sets a simple rhythm—down, suck, up, flick of the tongue, back down—and fights off the mindlessness that he often sinks into when giving head. He wants to remember every second of this, the same way he knows Stiles will remember.

In the end, it’s the way Peter runs a hand down his flank to palm his ass, thumb brushing over the budding bruises on his hips that does it. The possessive touch and the tingle of almost-pain make him seize and shake, trying to warn Peter as he comes.

Peter didn’t need the warning—he was more than aware—but it’s good to know Stiles has manners. He swallows, suckling softly until Stiles starts to go soft. Then and only then does he let go, shifting his jaw a little and nuzzling into Stiles’s stomach. The hand on his head keeps carding through his hair.

“That was . . . not what I expected.”

Peter grins at the breathy quality to Stiles’s voice. “Oh?”

“Well, I didn’t figure I’d be the one on the receiving end, for starters. Not that I’m complaining!” he rushes to add, and Peter has to smother a laugh. “And, uh, good call on both the holding and the leaning on the desk, because I think you killed my legs. Totally worth it, though.”

Peter nuzzles one more time against the vulnerable belly—knowing it’ll be all pink from stubble burn gives him a visceral kind of satisfaction—and then rights Stiles’s clothing before manoeuvring the pretty boy to straddle his lap. Stiles rests his head on Peter’s shoulder easily, limp and wrung out. He shifts, and feels Peter’s dick hard and throbbing even though denim. Stiles leans back, forehead creasing. “Are you—do you want—”

That’s all he gets out before Peter cuts him off with a kiss. “Not right now.”

“But—”

“Trust me, baby, there will be ample opportunity to teach you how to suck cock if that’s what you want. For now, I’m more than satisfied holding you while you recover from your first orgasm with another person.”

Stiles sighs, dropping his face back to Peter’s shoulder. “’M gonna hold you to that,” he grumbles.

“I’m looking forward to it.” He pauses. “After you’ve finished updating the filing system, and I’ve done what I can to protect you from that fucking Jeep.”

Stiles squawks in outrage, but the effect is ruined by the way he’s laughing. And the way he moans when Peter kisses him again.

 

***

 

Peter had swallowed, and aired out his office, but he knows that’s not enough to erase the evidence of what happened from nosy werewolves. Let alone Cora.

So he’s not surprised when, less than three steps into the garage the next morning, he hears, “Oh my _God_! Uncle Peter!”

He powers through, heading for his office. Cora remains undeterred. In fact, she leaps onto his back like a deranged spider monkey, nosing behind his ear. Her ensuing squeal is nothing short of deafening, and he bounces her off the wall in warning.

Luckily for her, she clambers off him. “You did! Oh my God, you _did_! You banged the pretty boy!”

The glee lighting her face is unholy. “I’m experiencing the strangest sense of déjà vu, but it’s none of your business.”

“You did! You _did_!” She turns to holler over her shoulder. “ _Leslie_! I win the bet!”

Peter had thought that nothing could touch the warm contentment in the pit of his stomach, but he’d been wrong, apparently. “You shoved him at me so you could win some bet?” he snarls.

Cora’s smile fades, but before she can speak, Leslie ambles into view. “Goddamnit, Peter. You couldn’t have waited?”

“What?” He’s officially lost the plot, but the irritation remains.

Leslie shoots him an aggrieved look. “I was sure you had more self-control in you than that.” Peter opens his mouth to defend himself—and throw Cora under a bus, where she belongs—but Leslie goes on before he can. “I was sure it’d take at least another three repairs before you gave in and plowed the kid.”

Peter watches Leslie smack a few bills into Cora’s hand, a small smirk curling his lips. “How specific were the terms of this bet, exactly?”

Cora’s face immediately goes sharp and suspicious. “If you fucked him in less than a year or eight repairs, whichever came first, then I won. More than that, Leslie.”

Peter hums. “And how are you defining ‘fuck’, darling?”

Her eyes narrow into a glare. “Was your dick involved?”

He leans in close to whisper, “As a matter of fact, it wasn’t,” and slides the money out of her hand. He strolls away, tucking it in his pocket, while Cora cusses him out and Leslie laughs hysterically.

 


End file.
